


Lost As I Am, You're My Good Samaritan

by the49thname



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Albert also deserves more screen time, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arthur deserves happiness goddammit, Eventual Romance, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Somebody Lives/Not Everyone Dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-21
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-09-24 05:16:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17094596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the49thname/pseuds/the49thname
Summary: Arthur meets Albert Mason in the wilds and finds himself getting closer than he should. Stuck between the promise of a different life, and the life he has always lived, Arthur struggles to balance what he wants from what is deemed necessary.





	Lost As I Am, You're My Good Samaritan

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn’t expecting to become so invested in Red Dead Redemption or this particular pairing but here we are. This is gonna be a sort-of long multi-chapter that’s also sort-of a fix-it fic. It diverges from canon in a general way but will mostly follow the canon until Chapter 4 of the game. The title of the fic was taken from the song _Nothing Stays The Same_ by Poets of the Fall, if you’re curious. Let me know what you think and enjoy reading!

It was June of 1899, and Arthur had never been happier to see the arrival of summer.

The American mid-west had never seen such a winter before. Months of bitter cold, almost without end, the very land itself dead and withered by winter’s chill. The cold had buried its claws in deep, claiming spring for its own; a spring that would never come to pass. It was as if the very mountains had cast their shadow upon the world, claiming all that was green and growing for its own. Arthur hadn’t particularly hated snow before, but he hated it now. It had been so damn cold, freezing the very heart of him. All that snow, all that _death_ ; he had never been more glad to be rid of it all. He welcomed the thaw in late May with open arms, as he was sure everyone else did.

It felt like change, or running from the inevitable; he wasn’t sure which. All that had come to pass - in Blackwater, in the mountains - it felt as if he could wash it away alongside the snow-melt. Everything the light touched filled with golden intention, as if life itself was breathing a sigh of relief. Arthur watched the green come back into the world, and hoped this meant change, change for the better.

There had been so much room for doubt up on those mountains, but now was a time for faith.

Arthur settled in at Horseshoe Overlook alongside all the others - his family of old - casting aside the heavy weight on his shoulders in favour of purpose. It was as fresh a start as they could hope to have, and he took it in stride, as he had done everything else that had happened throughout his life. But it all felt _different_ , somehow. Something had changed, and he couldn’t place whether it was good or bad, like something resting on the tip of his tongue, unsaid and unspoken.

That feeling lingered, buried itself deep into his heart, and left a feeling of restlessness in its wake.

Arthur spent any given opportunity away from camp, astride a horse he had only recently claimed for his own. Hosea had encouraged him to find a new mount, and he found one; a conveniently abandoned - otherwise known as _stolen_ \- Hungarian Halfbred. She had belonged to a man now rotting in a jail cell, bounty money burning a hole in Arthur’s pocket, and it wouldn’t have been fair, to leave such a creature to rot by the riverside, or be claimed by someone else besides. Storm would never replace his dear Boadicea, but she was headstrong, swift-footed; she was exactly what Arthur needed.

Hunting was as good an excuse as any to be away from camp, to have a sense of purpose between the minor robberies and bounty hunting. It was on one such trip that Arthur stumbled upon a man in the wilds just north of the Upper Montana River; a man by the name of Albert Mason.

There was something curious about him, something Arthur couldn’t put his finger on. Albert Mason was a city man, a wildlife photographer with a distinct lack of self-preservation. Arthur held little fondness for city folk, and he was even less fond of them now that he was stuck in the midst of civilisation. But this man, with his strange quirks and undeniable passion for his craft, was different somehow. He didn’t stick his nose up at Arthur, which considering their first meeting made little sense to him. He must’ve made one hell of a first impression; reeking of sweat, a dead buck on the back of his horse, hands bloodied, rifle in hand. He couldn’t have looked like more of a common hillbilly if he’d tried. And yet Albert had stood there, talking in an excitable manner, taking Arthur’s photo as if he was just as much at risk of going extinct as the coyote that stole his belongings.

Albert wouldn’t have been wrong, he supposed. Most people would have at the very least made Arthur feel like some sort of case study, or backdrop to some political machination or other, but Albert treated him like anyone else. Arthur felt relaxed in his presence, despite their different backgrounds.

After meeting Albert the once and saying his goodbyes, Arthur fully expected to never see him again. As he did with most things, Arthur immortalised Albert in his journal once he was back at camp, pencil moving this way and that in gentle movements. He drew him as he had first seen him; back facing him, bent over his camera, utterly focused. If he had anything to colour with, he’d have added the dappled light cast upon his shoulders, emerald-tinted in the shadow of nearby trees. He also drew the wily coyote he’d encountered, bag between its teeth, hoping for an easy meal.

Arthur met many strange people in his travels, and he helped these people more often than not. It gave him some sense of purpose, perhaps an illusion of goodness that he could never hope to achieve. He did not remember them all, though he tried to write about them or draw them if he was able to. And yet this strange man, this ridiculous city man with all his passion to preserve that which would soon be lost, strayed into his thoughts often.

He couldn’t understand it, so he made no attempt to make sense of it. There were other things that took priority, more important things than a strange man in the wilderness. Arthur buried himself in work, in practicality, and kept his eyes front.

Until he ran into Albert again, that is.

He hadn’t been expecting it, just as he hadn’t been expecting it the first time. He had travelled north, hunting once again, going by Charles’ advice that there was good game around Big Valley. He found Albert not too far from Wallace Station, back turned to him, focusing on a slab of meat hung from a nearby tree. Arthur shook his head, lowering himself down from his horse, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice.

“Hello again.”

A sudden gasp, a flailing of limbs, wide eyes meeting Arthur’s own before recognition stirred within them; Albert calmed himself, a bright smile gracing his features.

“Hello! How are you, sir? Ah… Morgan, Mister Morgan!” Nice to know the man remembered his name, Arthur noted. “I’m sorry, my… my nerves. I’m not quite the outdoor adventurer I thought. This is God’s own country, and I feel I’m in purgatory.”

Arthur laughed. “I know the feelin’.”

Albert’s tone was oddly concerned when he replied, “Oh, I hope not.”

They fell into a comfortable silence - again, that strange sense of curiosity, they barely knew each other and yet it all felt so familiar already - before Arthur couldn’t help but ask what the other man was doing.

“Whatchu tryin’ to take some pictures of? Some more greedy coyotes?”

“No, wolves.”

Albert couldn’t have sounded more excited if he tried. Arthur felt his stomach twist a little with worry. Wolves. The fool was trying to take photos of wolves. _Wolves_. God help him. Since there was no kindly deity to reach out their hand, Arthur’s hand would do; he’d protect this reckless idiot as if his life depended on it.

His life _did_ depend on it, as it turned out, and he nearly became the ‘dog’s dinner’, as Albert had so graciously put it. The encounter ended as well as it could have done, he supposed. Neither of them became dinner for a hungry predator, and Albert was no worse for wear, though his nerves were satisfactorily fried. Arthur readied himself to leave, having skinned the wolves for their pelts - receiving a slightly disgruntled reply from Albert about trophies - and raised himself up onto his horse. He looked over his shoulder at Albert, stood rambling to himself about shaking hands as he checked his equipment. Arthur hesitated. He hesitated enough to sit and shift in his saddle, uncomfortable and riddled with indecision, before he let out a frustrated groan and jumped off his horse, making his way back to Albert.

“Y’know, you stay out here much longer an’ you’re gonna be the dog’s dinner whether you want it or not.”

Albert turned, almost shocked to see Arthur was still there, before giving a nervous laugh, waving a free hand in a placating manner.

“Oh, I’m sure I’ll be some great predator’s dinner someday. I’m enough of a fool for it to be a justified end to my sorry existence.” He paused, noting Arthur wasn’t making any attempt to leave. “You don’t have to stay, you know. I’ve got it from here. No use having us both die out here in the wilderness.”

Arthur shook his head. “No offense, Mister Mason, but if it ain’t too much trouble I’d rather see you safely back to…” he hesitated, eyebrows furrowing. “… where you from, again?”

Albert stopped what he was doing, and turned to look at Arthur. There was something in his eyes, then, something Arthur couldn’t place. It was as if he was being looked at for the first time, right through to the core of his being. It was damn uncomfortable, and he couldn’t help but let out a tiny sigh of relief when Albert lowered his gaze.

“Well, I’m sure it is fairly obvious that I am not from around here.”

Arthur laughed. “No kiddin’.”

Albert joined in the laughter before replying, “But yes, as for where I am from… well, a long way away from here. I have been staying at various hotels in the region since I set off on my travels, so that is as close to home as I am going to get in my current circumstances.” Albert turned a curious gaze Arthur’s way. “And what about you, sir?”

Arthur let out an exasperated noise, wishing to conveniently dodge the subject. “Hey now, none of this ‘sir’ business. I ain’t any kind of person that should be called ‘sir’.”

Albert shook his head, earnest in his response. “Come now, Mister Morgan. You are a gentleman and of a great help to me, despite us hardly knowing each other, though… I suppose I could be a little more… _informal_ … since you saw me in such a pitiable state earlier.”

Arthur laughed. “’Pitiable’ is one way of puttin’ it.” He saw Albert’s shoulders slump and quickly corrected himself, stumbling over his words. “Ah, I-I didn’t mean it quite like that. It’s just clear you’re out of your element.”

Albert sighed. “Well, you’re not wrong about that. I suppose it would do me no harm to have you with me on the journey back to my current abode.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “And where is this ‘current abode’ a’ yours?”

Albert packed up his camera with careful, practised gestures - there was something so pleasing to it, seeing a skill like that, some familiarity to it that Arthur admired - before calling his horse over.

“I’ve been staying in Strawberry as of late, though I’ve been considering migrating to Valentine, or perhaps Saint Denis.”

Arthur let out a derisive laugh. “Saint Denis, now _that’s_ a shithole.”

Albert didn’t reply initially, raising himself up onto his horse - with some difficulty, Arthur noted - and falling alongside Arthur as they made their careful way to the nearest road. Eventually, Albert let out a sigh and spoke, a quiet tone to his voice.

“I am curious, Mister Morgan. What _do_ you make of a city like Saint Denis?”

Arthur remained silent for a while, raising a hand to scratch at his chin, trying to think of the careful, _appropriate_ way to phrase things. Hell, Albert had seen enough of him that he probably wouldn’t be expecting politeness at this point, and he was never much good at thinking before speaking.

“Well, as I said, it’s a shithole. Too many people, all crowdin’ round and bitchin’ about this and that. Can’t even breathe for all that soot in the air. People pretendin’ to be all civilised but really they’re no better than anyone else, just dressed a li’l smarter, but that makes it all the more revoltin’, to me anyway.”

Albert said nothing at first, and then he _laughed_ , stunning Arthur into silence. When Albert settled down, and Arthur felt a little less like his companion had lost his goddamn mind, Albert turned to him with a bright smile.

“Mister Morgan, may I just say, you have such a way with words.”

Arthur couldn’t reply, much less do anything more than awkwardly rub the back of his neck and ignore the embarrassment pooling in the pit of his stomach. Albert laughed, softer this time.

“I can’t help but agree with you. I do love the city, despite its flaws, but yes, as you said, it is quite… well, stifling at times.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to be curious. “If you don’t mind me askin’, Mister Mason, what d’ya see in a place like that?”

Silence fell upon them, broken only by the sound of their horses’ hooves upon the road, the wind brushing through nearby grass, until Albert raised his voice to speak, a gentle tone to his words.

“Well, for one, there’s a lot of history and culture to the place. Ignoring the - the repulsiveness of which you spoke -” Arthur smiled at that “- there’s an air of excitement there, this sense that you’re part of something bigger.” Albert gestured with his hands, animated and full of emotion. It was very endearing, in a strange sort of way. “It is also quite easy to become lost among the crowd there. Sure, they all gossip but not nearly as much as people do out here, all knowing each other since they were knee high to a possum, or however that phrase goes.”

Arthur laughed, shaking his head a little. “It’s ‘knee high to a grasshopper’, but go on, I’m still listenin’.”

Albert sighed, clearly embarrassed, before continuing. “I never could remember all those strange sayings. But yes, I do so enjoy the excitement and, shall we say, easy comforts of city life.”

Arthur said nothing for a while, enjoying the silence, before asking, “If you’ll indulge me a li’l more, Mister Mason. What brings you out here, then?”

Albert shifted in his saddle, raising a hand in a nervous gesture. “W-well, that would be a rather long tale, one I’m sure you don’t wish to hear. I’ve probably bored you plenty enough as it is.”

Arthur gave an incredulous laugh. “You ain’t bored me at all, Mister Mason. You’re a damn sight more interestin’ than most of the people I’ve met out here.”

There it was, his infamous talent of not thinking before speaking. It wasn’t that he didn’t mean it - quite the opposite - but it was the sudden silence, the _tension_ , and the way Albert turned and stared at him, giving him that soul-searching look he’d given earlier, that made him feel as if he’d screwed up in some way. Arthur gave an embarrassed cough, turning away to focus on the road ahead.

“W-well, we’re close to Strawberry now, won’t have to put up with me for much longer.”

Albert gave a discontented noise. “Come now, Mister Morgan. If my tales of banal urbanity are somehow of interest to you, then _you_ are far more interesting than all of that. I am not putting up with anything.”

Now it was Arthur’s turn to sit and stare, looking over at Albert’s building embarrassment with an incredulous expression. Eventually, Albert gestured ahead at the town encroaching before them.

“W-well now, there’s Strawberry. I do so hope my room is still free, it gave such a nice view of the country beyond the town.”

Arthur shrugged. “I guess we’ll see. I’ll take you to the hotel and head off from there.”

There, that tension again, before Albert coughed - awkwardly, very, very awkwardly - and raised his voice to speak.

“Well, um, if you wanted to, th-there is an awfully nice beer that the nearby saloon procures, I would most heartily recommend it. We could sit and - and drink a while, if you had the time.” He faltered, clearly anxious from the way he spoke. “I, well, I’m sure you have much better things to do. You’ve already wasted more than enough time on me as it is.”

Arthur said nothing for a while, couldn’t say anything, stunned into silence as he was. This man, this utterly strange man, wanted to spend time with him despite everything? That made even less sense than Albert’s bizarre need to look for trouble of the furry, drooling, teeth-bearing variety. He would be needed back at camp, that he knew - they were painfully low on supplies, barely out of the Grizzlies more than a week or so at most - and he was painfully aware that whatever this was building between them was likely going to end badly if he let it go much further. And yet that damn curiosity was still there, clutching at his heart.

Arthur turned to logic, practicality. It was getting dark, no use hunting now when he’d be blinded by the encroaching night. A few drinks, just a few drinks, with a little extra company; it wouldn’t hurt. He resolutely ignored the little voice that said it was just an excuse.

“Sure, not got much else to do. Guess I can sit and drink witchu a while, then make camp somewhere.”

Albert tried to say something, stumbled over his words so thoroughly Arthur had to try very hard not to laugh, before finally composing himself.

“That - that’s fantastic! Wonderful! It is so much nicer to drink in good company, after all.” _I’m not good company_ , Arthur thought in response, but he kept it to himself. “Though your talk of camping outside has quite intrigued me, I am half-tempted to come join you.” Albert faltered, anxious to the point of irritating his horse, who gave a disgruntled whinny at him. “I-if that would be no bother at all.”

Arthur shook his head, unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. “You continue to surprise me, Mister Mason. Camping out’s gonna be a damn sight more uncomfortable than a cozy hotel room, though the view would be a hell of a lot better out here than through a dingy window.”

Albert smiled so brightly he was practically beaming. “And that is exactly why camping out sounds absolutely fantastic. I could get a good shot of the sunrise, if I can motivate myself to set up my camera.”

They had entered Strawberry proper at this point, and fell into a comfortable silence before hitching their horses in front of the saloon. As they both dismounted, Arthur titled his head towards Albert’s camera.

“I been meanin’ to ask since that first time, but it’d sure be nice to learn how to use a fancy camera like yours someday.”

Albert nearly tripped over his own feet, excited as he was. “I - Mister Morgan, that’s fantastic to hear! I would love to teach you a few things.” He gave his horse a gentle pat, after carefully watching Arthur do the same to his horse, Arthur noted with a smile. “You should have said something earlier! If I knew you were a budding photographer as well as, well, everything else I perhaps would have involved you more in things!”

Arthur laughed, patting the man on the shoulder. “I had my hands rather full protectin’ your ass, Mister Mason. Now, let’s go drink this beer you mentioned earlier.”

And drink they did, though Arthur was careful not to drink too much. It hadn’t been that long since his rather… _eventful_ night with Lenny in Valentine, and he did not wish to repeat it, especially not in Albert’s company. The beer was quite good, and the food was certainly passable, and there was something so enrapturing about listening to Albert as he talked about one thing or another, always waving his hands around in an animated way, looser and more relaxed with a few beers in him. Arthur enjoyed himself, a lot more than he felt he should, but he kept that to himself.

The two of them left sometime in the night, and when Albert made no attempt to head to the hotel, Arthur did nothing more than shake his head with a smile, leading his horse back out to the countryside beyond Strawberry’s borders with Albert right beside him.

They made camp not too far from the town - just in case it got too wild for Albert’s tastes - and settled down close to the banks of the Upper Montana River, not far from the Owanjila Dam. Arthur took it upon himself to set up camp, knowing without even asking that Albert had never done it before, and soon had a comfortable enough space set up for the two of them to sit by the warmth of a fire, stars overhead, and nothing but each other for company.

They settled into a comfortable silence, Albert intently focused on the river winding its way before him, no doubt trying to spot some kind of animal or another. Arthur took it as a good opportunity to take out his journal, pencil in hand, sketching the wolves he and Albert had encountered earlier. He didn’t notice Albert turning his gaze towards him, and nearly jumped out of his skin when Albert spoke mere inches away from him. Dutch would laugh until he _cried_ if he saw Arthur so unaware of his surroundings.

“A photographer _and_ an artist! You continue to surprise me, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur felt half-tempted to hide his journal away - it was a very private thing, something he shared with no-one - but since Albert had seen it already, he kept it open on the sketch he’d been working on, rubbing the back of his neck with a bashful smile.

“Aw, hell, I wouldn’t call myself no artist, Mister Mason. Just a habit I picked up along the way.”

“Tell me about it.”

Albert’s response was instantaneous, without hesitation, said with such burning curiosity that Arthur found it hard to meet his eyes. He coughed before replying, feeling awkward.

“Well, I - I started doin’ it when I was barely out m’teens.” Only a few years after he started running with Dutch and Hosea, not that Albert needed to know that. “Kept it up more out of boredom than anythin’ else, gave me somethin’ to do to pass the time.”

It wasn’t the entire truth, but it would do for now. Things had been so simple back then. Just him, Dutch, and Hosea; a happy family, or as happy a family as could be when you were a bunch of no-good outlaws. Things were so different now, and that thought made the smile fall from his face. Albert seemed to pick up on it, moving back a little to give Arthur some space, turning back towards the river as if nothing had been said. He was more perceptive than Arthur gave him credit for - though not perceptive enough to value his safety more - and he appreciated it, that careful discretion.

Arthur settled back into his sketching, trying not to think about the past, about change, about being left behind while the world charged ahead without him.

The silence that draped itself over the both of them was comfortable, peaceful almost. It was the kind of silence that didn’t need to be broken, but if it was broken, it would be okay. After finishing his sketch of the wolves, Arthur raised his head, saw Albert still staring across the water, and felt that pang of curiosity rise up within him again.

“Say, mind if I ask you somethin’, Mister Mason?” Albert turned, expression neutral but that light ever in his eyes, showing he was more than willing to talk. Arthur took it as an incentive to continue. “You never did say why you came out all this way.”

Albert laughed. “I, well, if you really want to hear it, and don’t feel it’ll bore you, then I’d be happy to give an answer.”

“As I said earlier, Mister Mason, you ain’t borin’ in the slightest.”

That soul-searching look, yet again, before Albert turned away, looking across the river, voice quiet but easily heard nonetheless.

“I grew up in the north-east. Connecticut. It’s very, how shall I put it… _urbanised_ up there. Spent most of my whole life surrounded by houses with big gardens and white picket fences and everything the American Dream says you should want.”

He paused, then, and Arthur could see some tension in his shoulders, something left unsaid and unspoken. Arthur didn’t ask, and knew Albert would be thankful for it. Eventually, Albert seemed to collect his thoughts together and continued.

“Most of my family is in Connecticut, but I also have family out west, far out to the west. All trees and hills and far off mountains.” He gave a wistful sigh, gaze faraway. “I always looked forward to those visits. I always wanted to be out there, in the wilderness. I should’ve asked my uncle to teach me how to survive, then maybe men like you would have to save men like me a little less often.”

Arthur laughed at that, and Albert joined in. Their eyes met, and they both got a strong sense of familiarity, of comfort, as if the small amount of time they’d known each other mattered very little. It was a nice feeling, albeit vulnerability-inducing, and Arthur was the first to turn away, eager to bring back some sense of guarded distance between them.

“If men like you knew how to survive, well, I’d be out of a job.”

Albert smiled. “Oh, I’m sure you have much better things to do than saving helpless photographers, Mister Morgan.”

Arthur leant back, hands behind him, arms outstretched, and shrugged. “Sure, maybe there are better things, but it wouldn’t be as interestin’.”

Arthur was prepared for the look he was given, though it still left him feeling awfully transparent, if but for a moment. Albert seemed to hesitate over something before speaking, almost too quiet to be heard.

“Do you do this often, Mister Morgan?”

Arthur faltered, confused. “Do I do… what?”

“Spend time with strangers, like myself.”

A loaded question, clearly with some intent that went far beyond simple curiosity; Arthur wasn’t sure how to answer. He knew there was no way in hell he’d be able to word it right, so he spoke his mind without reservation.

“Well, if it ain’t too forward of me, Mister Mason, you ain’t just a stranger at this point, are you?” Albert froze for a moment before relaxing, visibly enough for Arthur to pick up on it. “Sure, I help a few people here and there. I, uh, travel a lot. Sometimes you bump into folks that need helpin’.”

_Shoot fellers as need shootin’, save fellers as need savin’_ \- that’s how the motto went, didn’t it? There was a little more to it than that, Arthur knew, though he hated to acknowledge it; a sense of always having bloodied hands, where no good deed was enough to wash it off of him. As for whether Albert Mason came under that - a person to save, to allow him to believe just for a moment that he could do some good - he didn’t know. He meant what he said, that Albert was not just a stranger, though he wasn’t quite sure what he meant by it exactly.

Albert didn’t reply for a long time, turning away from Arthur to gaze out at the river once more. Eventually, he let out a quiet laugh, amusement in his voice.

“Well, Mister Morgan, I’m glad to hear it. The world could do with more men like you.”

_You’re wrong_ , was the instant response that came to Arthur’s mind, but he kept it to himself. No use in ruining such a thing now. He was aware - painfully, _painfully_ aware - that if Albert found out all that constituted who he was, that they would not be sat at this camp together, talking so comfortably with one another. No, Albert would do what any sane man would do, and run away at the very least, or more likely call the law down on Arthur in a rain of bullets.

After it became clear that Arthur no longer wanted to talk, Albert seemed to accept that silence and said nothing of it. The rest of that night passed without note. Albert thought he saw something on the other side of the river bank at one point, and Arthur immediately reached for his rifle, all too aware of what went bump in the night. But it turned out to be nothing more than a lone wolf, having a quiet drink before leaving. Arthur had already had more than enough of his fill of wolves that day, and was glad to see the bugger go.

Arthur took first watch, insisting Albert sleep despite him protesting, and tried and failed not to watch the man as he slept. He was always moving, so animated in his gestures, to the point where it was strange, almost unsettling, to see the man be so still. Embers from the fire lit up his face, fragments of rose red and sunset orange flickering upon his skin. He looked… well, Arthur didn’t know how he looked, only that he was reaching for his pencil without even thinking about it first. It would pass the time, he told himself. It would give him something to do other than jump at every shadow, every noise.

He would never be able to record anything in the same likeness as a photograph, but there was something so satisfying about creating an image from nothing; a line here, a smudge there, turning a mere memory into something physical, something _real_. Sure, he could take a photo of Albert as he lay asleep, and would wake the poor fool up in the process. But immortalising him on paper? That he could do.

Arthur knew better than most that there was no permanence in life. One day, this silly man and his foolish need to preserve America’s wildlife would be nothing but bones and dust. That thought made Arthur’s heart twist a little, and he rubbed a hand against his chest, irritated by it. He knew it was stupid to get too attached, particularly to people outside of ‘the life’, as the gang called it. He’d learned that lesson well enough through Mary, through Eliza and Isaac. He wouldn’t be there for Albert every time he needed it. Either he would pass before his time on some botched job, shot to death or hung at the gallows, or Albert would finally get himself eaten by God knows what.

But now wasn’t the time for that, he knew, and he berated himself for getting so sentimental. For now, he had to keep an eye on things. He could sleep back at camp later, though he would need to bring back some kind of food if he wanted to avoid being scolded. He’d make sure Albert slept restfully, and would leave him in Strawberry before parting ways.

It was for the best, for the both of them.

* * *

_(Sketch of wolves around a tree, meat hanging from a branch)_

_Saw Mister Mason again - this time he was taking photos of wolves. Still doing his hardest to get himself eaten. Escorted him back to Strawberry, ended up getting a few drinks and camping out near the dam with him. Seems I’ve fallen into an unexpected “friendship” of sorts with him, or something like that. Something about this fool makes me ~~feel~~ think too hard about things. It’s a strange thing. Best we say our goodbyes now, before it goes much further._

_(Sketch of Albert sleeping)_

* * *

The rest of the night passed slowly, peacefully. Dawn was soon approaching, the sky already brightening up. Arthur debated whether he should wake Albert up or not. Albert had wanted to take a photograph of the sunrise, and it was coming close to dawn now. If the fool slept for much longer, he’d miss his opportunity completely.

After a few minutes of indecision, Arthur decided it was better to wake the man. He could always go back to sleep if he wanted. Arthur pushed himself up, wincing a little at how stiff his body felt; the fire had burned out a few hours beforehand, and it was a cold morning. Stretching his arms and legs a little, Arthur leant down and, carefully as he could, shook Albert’s shoulder.

Albert gave a loud yelp and sat up so fast he nearly smacked right into Arthur, who moved back quickly enough to avoid being given a concussion. Albert sat, hand gripping the front of his shirt, before he seemed to realise where he was, and gave Arthur a tentative smile.

“Oh! Mister - Mister Morgan, my apologies, I completely forgot where I was for a moment.”

Arthur shook his head with a laugh. “You nearly took my head off, Mister Mason! Was jus’ wakin’ you since the sun’s gonna rise soon.”

Albert seemed confused for a moment before he understood, expression immediately brightening. “Ah, yes, I did say I wished to take a photograph of the sunrise. Thank you, Mister Morgan.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Arthur moved back to give Albert some space, sitting back in his previous spot and observing as Albert - somewhat clumsily, to his amusement - raised himself up and started setting up his camera. He frequently stopped to yawn, but his movements were well-practised, fingers moving in a precise way.

Arthur had his own pocket camera, but it was pretty simple to use. Aim and shoot, then take the film to be developed by someone who knows what they’re doing. Albert’s camera looked more complicated, somehow, though it undoubtedly worked in a pretty similar way. Almost like with guns, Arthur noted; they all worked sort-of differently, but the core mechanics of it were the same. He kept that thought to himself, hazarding a guess that Albert was about as familiar with guns as he was with the outdoors.

“Did you want to help me with taking the photograph, Mister Morgan?”

Albert had turned to face him, bright-eyed and curious, and Arthur couldn’t help but accept the invitation. He pushed himself up, brushing himself down a little before standing beside Albert. He looked down, saw all the different sections and compartments on the camera, and felt overwhelmed.

“It looks… complicated.”

Albert shook his head. “It’s not that complicated, though I suppose it depends on your experience.”

“Well, I have one of ‘em pocket cameras, you just… well, aim and shoot. Camera does the rest for you.”

“May I see?”

“Sure.”

Arthur took his camera out of his satchel and presented it to Albert, who gave a delighted noise and turned it every which way, a bright smile gracing his features. It was endearing, and Arthur couldn’t help but smile at it.

“It’s a good model, won’t give the best quality images but it’ll certainly do the job. Unrolls and rerolls the film automatically, easy to use. Do you develop the film yourself, Mister Morgan?”

Arthur shook his head. “Nah, I ain’t that smart. I leave it with someone in town who does it for me.”

“Oh, it’s really not that hard. You could definitely manage it. I should show you some time.”

That hint of promise was a powerful thing, and the feeling of curiosity in Arthur’s heart burned ever brighter. He couldn’t respond, and the approaching sunrise thankfully rid him of the need to do so. Albert moved him into place, one hand on his shoulder, the other on his lower back - firm hands, firmer than he expected - and told him how to use the camera, or at the very least how to take a single shot of the river bank.

The sky filled with colour, slowly, like ink seeping into parchment. Rose pink, apricot, lilac, and the blood red sun rising up above the horizon; it was a sight to behold. Arthur felt his breath still in his chest, gripped by a sense of majesty, of peace. _This_ was why he hated civilisation. Nothing could ever compare to this, the simple majesty of nature, of the sun rising and falling and rising again among a sky filled with countless stars. It was -

“Beautiful.”

Albert’s voice, soft and barely above a whisper, filled with the same reverence that Arthur felt in his heart in that moment; Arthur almost forgot to take a photo, gripped by a feeling he couldn’t place, couldn’t quite name. He managed to press the right button, and with a satisfying _click_ the encroaching dawn was recorded onto film. He let out a quiet sigh, stepping back a little.

“Shame none of the colour will show up on that photo.”

Albert nodded, looking out at the distant horizon with a smile. “It is a shame, but the memory of it will be clear in my mind a long time from now.” He turned to face Arthur, eyes bright. “Thank you, Mister Morgan. This was well worth camping out for.”

Arthur was stunned into silence by that smile, the earnest look in Albert’s eyes, and found himself without words. He rubbed the back of his neck with a hand, cheeks flushed.

“It - it’s no problem. Thank you for, uh, showin’ me how to work this thing.”

Albert smiled. “It’s no problem at all. See it as thanks for all that you’ve done for me.”

Arthur couldn’t reply to that, looking away, feeling the back of his neck heat up. He felt a fool, acting like some kind of character from one of the cheap novels Mary-Beth read back at camp. He coughed into a hand, awkwardly.

“W-well, we should, uh, eat somethin’ then best we head off from there.”

If Albert was disappointed, he didn’t let it show, simply nodding and asking about how to set up a campfire, which gave Arthur the distraction he felt he needed from whatever this was, tangled up between the two of them. They headed back to Strawberry later that morning in silence. There was a tension between them, some sense of contemplation that felt needed, but neither of them breathed a word of it. Albert made no attempt to persuade Arthur to stay, and Arthur said nothing more than a _good luck to ya_ before heading out, wanting to say more but not knowing what he’d say, if anything.

Arthur spent the ride back to Horseshoe Overlook in a pensive mood, distracted by his own thoughts. He got the strange feeling he’d bump into Albert again, but part of him felt it would be better if he never saw him again. An interesting man, far too kind and foolish for his own good, but there was something more to him, some sense of perception and understanding that left Arthur feeling transparent, almost vulnerable.

Time and time again he found himself wondering why he felt so comfortable in the man’s presence, Albert was different, was the simple answer. He was clearly out of his element, out here in the wilderness, lacking in skills and knowledge of how to survive; the kind of naïveté that was common among city folk in general. But he wasn’t ignorant, or stupid, and his passion for his craft made him interesting instead of overbearing, skilful in a way that Arthur could somewhat relate to.

Most of the gang were aware of his ‘little drawing habit’, but the only people that had expressed interest in it were mostly nosy bastards, wanting to know what the ‘great Arthur Morgan’ wrote in his private journal. It wouldn’t do to come across too soft, not when he was Dutch’s prized workhorse, so he kept his more creative side to himself, for the most part.

Albert stirred something in him, urging him to improve his skills, or at the very least maintain them. There was just… something different about him. He was different from Arthur, different from the uppity residents of Saint Denis, different from the rest of the gang. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He saw a little of Hosea in him, some of Dutch too, minus the exceptional talent of robbing people of their inheritance. Dutch was a man who valued loyalty, who valued passion. He would stop at nothing to achieve his dreams, to the point of sheer foolishness sometimes. Hosea was a man who valued things being in their right place, watching things come together until they met exactly where they should, more often than not due to his own actions. Albert was a little like the both of them, passionate to the point where it became his undoing, manipulating cameras instead of people to get the exact result that he desired; an orchestrator of his own success.

It made Arthur wonder how much things would’ve been different if he’d never been found by Hosea and Dutch all those long years ago. Would he be some aspiring artist or photographer, wearing the kinds of uncomfortable suits that the men of Saint Denis seemed to adore? A different life, one spent trying to find some sense of purpose or place in a world where all that anyone cared for was money... money and power. More likely, he would’ve been claimed by the noose, an abandoned child too sloppy at stealing to survive. No, it was pointless to think about it. He was the man that he was, no changing it now, and Albert was a different man. Best to keep those two lives separate from each other.

As Horseshoe Overlook came into view, Arthur pushed any and all thoughts out of his mind. With a deer laced to the back of his horse as a ‘peace offering’ of sorts, to make up for having been away for a few days, Arthur led his horse through the trees. Lenny greeted him from the outskirts of camp, eager to see him.

“Arthur! It’s good to see you.”

Arthur tipped his hat forward a little with a smile. “Same to you, kid. Anythin’ interestin’ happen while I was gone?”

“Nah, nothing much. Sean got into a fight with John over some stupid thing or another, Bill brought back a good take from a stagecoach job I helped him with. Just the usual.” He paused before giving Arthur a curious look. “What about you? Been gone a day or two.”

Arthur shrugged before carefully untying the deer from the back of his horse, hauling it over his shoulder with a grunt before heading towards Pearson, Lenny following alongside him. When it became clear Lenny needed more of a response than that, he sighed.

“Don’t know what you’re expectin’. Went out huntin’ near Big Valley, like Charles suggested. Met some fool who nearly got eaten by wolves, then camped out near Strawberry before headin’ back here. You ain’t missed out, don’t worry.”

There must’ve been something in Arthur’s voice or expression that Lenny picked up on, because he nearly asked for more until they were both interrupted by Dutch.

“You were out near Strawberry but left our dear Micah in that jail cell?”

Arthur winced, still making for Pearson’s tent and trying to ignore the scolding tone to Dutch’s voice. He had completely forgotten about Micah’s existence - and what a blissful kind of ignorance that was - but if he said that to Dutch he’d be in for more than a gentle scolding.

“Now, see here, Dutch. I can’t just bust that fool out easy. We need supplies, bad. Charles said there was some good game up that way, and I ain’t gonna bust Micah out half-starvin’, am I?”

Dutch seemed satisfied with that answer, but only just. He sighed, rubbing at his temples.

“Just… make sure you get him out. Can’t leave him there forever or they really will hang him.”

Lenny and Arthur shared a mutual look that said _good, let him swing_ but they kept it to themselves. Dutch went back to his tent, Lenny gave Arthur a smile before heading out of camp to keep watch, leaving Arthur to dump the deer with Pearson before stumbling to his tent to sleep.

With a jaw-breaking yawn, Arthur removed his boots, placed his hat and satchel on the nearby table, and swiftly fell asleep, dreaming of bright smiles and the flash of cameras and ravenous wolves.

* * *

_(Sketch of the sunrise over the Upper Montana)_

_Mister Mason showed me how to use that fancy camera of his. Managed to see a real beautiful sunrise. Left him back at Strawberry, though I get the funny feeling I’m gonna end up bumping into him again. Also got an earful from Dutch for leaving Micah in that jail. He can rot there for all I care, but I guess I’ll have to go get him eventually. Camp seems quiet. Hope a job comes up soon that’s more interesting than ridding the Heartlands of its local population._


End file.
